Narcissus
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: "What is mine is yours and what is yours is mine. There is no ME and YOU, there is only we. Us. Ours." Borrowing from the myth of Narcissus to explore Custis' unwholesome attachment to Morgan.


_**A/N: **Nothing explicit, just hints at one-sided/unrequited Pendlecest._

* * *

Custis Pendleton bathed alone.

There was a time, many years ago, when he and Morgan had shared a claw-footed tub as young children but, at some point, it had become _inappropriate_ (as the servants and Father had been so quick to point out) and, from then on, they had their own private bathrooms. Identical – from the swirls in the expensive Tyvian marble to the musicality of the delicate glass tiles that tinkered beneath droplets of water, from the ornate fixtures crafted from imported metal to the selection of fragrant bath oils – but separate.

He sighed and stretched out along the cool, smooth porcelain. His bath was large, large enough for two, but sharing it with his twin was out of the question. _Inappropriate. _He had resigned himself to the separation long ago but that did little to quell the painful sense of loneliness that seemed to have gnawed right down to his bones.

Steam collected in tiny beads on his skin and in his hair. He propped a foot up on the rim of the tub and watched as rivulets of warm water trickled through the dusting of fine dark hairs on his pale calf. A calf that was identical to Morgan's in every respect.

The thought made Custis sigh and throw back his head and he tried not to think about what Morgan's skin would feel like beside his in the warm water. He tried not to think about Morgan on the other side of the tub, stretched out along the smooth porcelain, with his foot propped up and his head thrown back, maybe smoking a cigarette and grinning lazily. And Custis would slowly – _slowly _– brush his hand along Morgan's leg, beneath the water, and it would be alright because it wasn't _just_ Morgan's leg, it was_his_ too, identical in every respect.

He lingered in the water until it was cold and his fingertips were just beginning to wrinkle. With a small, disapproving hum he noticed that his fingers still bore the dark stains of ink from where he had accidentally smeared a ledger whilst working earlier in the day. He lightly brushed the pad of his thumb across his fingertips, and relished the tingle that sparked through his hand, up his wrist, to his elbow. For a moment, he indulged in imagining that it was Morgan's thumb brushing against his fingertips, lightly and sweetly, almost as if he couldn't bear to see his twin's skin stained; and then, he hauled himself out of the tub and crossed to the marble basin for a towel and a mirror.

Custis didn't quite enjoy staring at his reflection as much as he should have. Whilst he admired his body, and took great pride in his appearance, analysing his reflection felt strange. Unnerving. It was _confusing_.

Confusing because, as he gazed at the lean lines of his naked body and watched droplets of water snake down his arms and his chest and trickle into his eyes from his damp hair, he knew that it was _his_ body– and there was nothing wrong with a little vanity – but he knew that it was _Morgan's_ body as well. Slightly larger than Custis' but otherwise identical, right down to the last neatly-manicured cuticle. And then Custis soon lost track of where he ended and Morgan began, and he became infuriated with the idea of separation, of boundaries, of _two of them_ instead of _the whole of them_.

And if he stared at his reflection too long he found himself pining for his twin, for the identical lean lines dripping with fragrant bathwater, for the identical dusting of dark hairs on his chest, for the identical slant of his shoulders, for the strong arms that Morgan had developed from years of beating maids and whores and Treavor, for the same glittering of hunger and desire and _understanding_ in those matching dark eyes.

Despite himself, he found his fingers stretching out for the mirror. If he ignored the way his reflection's shoulders shuddered with ragged breaths, he could _almost_ imagine that it was Morgan, naked and dripping from his bath, slowly reaching for _him_–

But instead of Morgan's warm cheek, all he felt was the cold polished glass.

Custis dried himself off and slipped into a dressing gown. As he spared his reflection another short glance, he finger-combed his hair back from his forehead. Morgan was, no doubt, bathing elsewhere in the manor. The separation, Custis felt, had gone on long enough.

He snapped at a servant lingering idly in the hallway as he swaggered to Morgan's bathroom. He had gone there once or twice before, to press his body against the polished wood of the door and listen to the water running or Morgan's bare feet slapping against the marble floor. Once, he had even peered through the keyhole at his brother, but it had felt so incredibly _wrong_ and had made him feel like a pervert – guilty and ashamed – and he had never done it again.

Now, though, there was nothing stopping him as he reached for the handle on the door. Slowly, he let himself into the bathroom. The air inside was hot, hotter than in his own bathroom, and thick with steam. He inhaled deeply, a faint smile curling his lips.

Morgan was lying in the tub, his head thrown back against the smooth lip, one foot propped on the rim; a washcloth was draped over his face and one arm hung over the porcelain edge of the tub, fingers half-curled in relaxation. Custis wanted to bend down and press his hand against Morgan's, to match up the lines in their palms and the whorls on their fingertips, but he resisted.

Custis crossed to his twin with steady footsteps – he did not want to sneak up to Morgan, to tiptoe on the cold marble floor; no, he had no reason to hide his presence from his brother. He balled a fist against his hip and gazed down with a bemused smirk at Morgan. For a moment, he was reminded of a large jungle cat, the kind that roamed the Pandyssian wilds, in the lazy slope of Morgan's body, the careless angle of his limbs, the way his chest rose and fell with deep, steady breaths.

Morgan did not acknowledge Custis, but whether that was because he didn't know or simply didn't care, Custis couldn't tell. He took the chance, then, to examine his twin: there, beneath the washcloth, was a shock of dark, damp hair; there were those strong arms and broad shoulders; there was that chest dusted with dark hairs (perhaps darker and coarser than Custis'). His eyes moved lower, to the arrow of dark hair trailing from Morgan's navel, and then he quickly averted his gaze.

He shouldn't. It wasn't right. It was…

_Inappropriate_.

But it shouldn't have been. They were identical, in every way, in every feature. Morgan's nudity was his nudity and vice versa. It was just like looking into a mirror, like studying his own reflection. There was no shame in admiring one's own body.

_What is mine is yours and what is yours is mine. There is no _me _and _you_, there is only we. Us. Ours._

His eyes travelled along Morgan's lean thighs, well-muscled from years spent riding and hunting across the estate. He studied Morgan's calf, the one raised up out of the tub and dripping with water. A calf that was identical to Custis' in every detail. His gaze drifted to Morgan's ankle, to his foot. Custis recognized the curl of his toes and the arch of his instep because they were _his_ too. His and Morgan's, existing separately and together.

Idly, Custis wondered what would happen if he rubbed his foot along the back of his calf. Would Morgan feel it, through some otherworldly connection? Would he realize that the sudden tickle was Custis' doing? Or would he simply scratch it away, carelessly? And then, would Custis feel Morgan's nails on his skin? The thought made him chuckle softly through his nose.

Morgan lifted a hand to pull away the washcloth. His skin was flushed and damp; dew-like beads of steam had condensed on his eyelashes, and they trembled as he raised his eyes to his brother. A lazy grin curled his lips and he waved a hand at Custis. "Yes?" he drawled, the rich deep tones of his voice echoing off the walls in a way that made Custis' back arch.

"What, I can't check in on my brother and see how he's doing?" he returned smoothly, perching on the edge of the tub; he closed a hand over the rim of cold porcelain, very close to Morgan's foot.

"How _kind_ of you," Morgan sighed. He replaced the washcloth over his face.

Custis smirked. Anybody else might have told him to _leave_ because watching another person (especially one's own kin) bathe was highly _inappropriate_. But Morgan wasn't fazed in the least. He was unashamed. There were no boundaries between the twins, no proverbial lines drawn to separate them. They were as close as they were going to get, and that made Custis' body tense with despair. Knowing that he and Morgan were _not close enough_ was unbearable.

"Are you just going to sit there and stare at me?" Morgan asked, his voice muffled by the damp washcloth.

"Well, I'd join you but I've already bathed," Custis replied, hoping that his twin did not hear the catch of his breath in his throat. The heat in the air was making him dizzy. He inched his hand closer to Morgan's foot, wondering what sort of excuses he would make in case his brother protested at his touch…

But Morgan seemed more interesting in simply lying in the tub. Perhaps he was dozing beneath the washcloth.

Custis went to the basin, where a few bottles of precious bath oil and shampoo stood. He was feeling bold. Empowered. Unashamed. Being around Morgan did that to him. He retrieved the shampoo and returned to the tub. "Sit up ," he instructed, coming to rest behind Morgan's head.

Morgan huffed and lifted the washcloth away. He scowled up at Custis, damp hair curling on his forehead. "Why?"

Custis smirked. "Just do as I say."

Stretching and sighing, Morgan obeyed, taking his foot off the rim of the tub and straightening out both his legs beneath the water.

Satisfied, Custis perched on the edge of the tub and dipped his hand into the water. It was hot. Morgan obviously liked it that way. Slowly, eyes on the back of Morgan's head, he began cupping water over his twin's head. He lightly raked his fingers through Morgan's dark hair, letting his nails scrape against his twin's scalp. His own scalp tingled in response.

At the sound of a pleasured sigh escaping Morgan, Custis grinned.

He wet Morgan's head thoroughly, and then emptied some shampoo into his hand and began to lather up Morgan's hair. The shampoo was scented with something heady and rich. Sandalwood, maybe. It was distinctly Morgan and Custis unconsciously wet his lips.

He worked slowly and methodically, pulling his fingers through Morgan's short locks, massaging gently with his fingertips. At one point, Morgan threw back his head and rolled his shoulders and said, "I could get used to this, you know." Custis could hear the grin in his voice.

"Only if you return the favour," he purred, sweeping his fingers across Morgan's forehead and temples, clearing away any dripping lather. He resisted the urge to chase the fragrant suds as they trailed over Morgan's perfect collarbones, his firm pectorals.

"Mmm. Perhaps."

Custis looked down the length of his twin's body as he rinsed away the heady lather. He found himself entranced by the long, lean lines of Morgan's body, the strength in his thighs, the sinews and muscles and tendons in his hands and (when he arched his head back, letting Custis wash away lather from his forehead) in his neck. He was entranced because it wasn't just Morgan's body he was looking at: it was _his_. He shared those lean lines, those muscles and tendons. He shared that pale skin, that dark hair.

And lusting after that body, after Morgan's strength, wasn't necessarily _wrong_, because it was _his_ body and _his_ strength too. It was simply admiration. Like gazing longingly into a mirror.

Except that he wanted the mirror's reflection to gaze back, to admire _him _and lust after_him_ too.

Custis smoothly parted Morgan's hair on the side with his index finger, like a penknife slicing through an envelope; he didn't even need to look at Morgan's face to line the parting up with the imperious arch of his eyebrow. It was an instinct, inexplicable and special and almost supernatural. Custis likened it to knowing exactly where the parts of his body were when he closed his eyes: he didn't need his sight to know where his nose was, or his hip or his knee, but somehow he _knew_ and he couldn't easily find them. He didn't need his sight to know Morgan's body either and – somehow – he_knew_.

His finger brushed against the shell of Morgan's ear and Custis swore he felt _something_against his own ear. A phantom fingertip, lightly brushing the smooth flesh. He slotted a hand against Morgan's face, fingers curling along his jaw, palm pressing into the curve of his cheekbone. If he angled the tip of his thumb, he could feel stubble in the dimples of Morgan's chin, or the rough corner of his lips.

_His_ dimples in _his_ chin. The rough corner of _his_ lips.

Morgan's face was _his_ face and vice versa. They were reflections of the same person, mirror-images bouncing off one another. Custis stroked his own cheek, lifted his own jaw to tilt his own head back. He pulled his fingers through Morgan's hair – his own hair – and smirked as Morgan, his twin, his other half, his reflection, twisted in the bath and frowned.

"What?" he demanded, dark eyes flashing.

Custis pulled his hand away. "Nothing," he answered. "Just admiring."

"Admiring _what_?" Morgan returned with a smirk. "We look the same. There's nothing here that you don't have," he added, reaching up to quickly touch Custis' cheek in demonstration.

When Morgan's hand fell away, Custis felt the separation of their bodies like a cold knife in his chest. The loneliness he had felt whilst he was bathing returned, making every fibre in his body ache.

_What__ is mine is yours and what is yours is mine. There is no _me _and _you_, there is only we. Us. Ours._


End file.
